


deserves a quiet night

by ninemoons42



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Love Bites, M/M, Making Out, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, brotherhood era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 10:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18636679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: In his own bones and nerves and flesh Noctis understands the weariness of Prompto -- the hard slog of getting ready to become some kind of fighter.Does it also follow that he can understand what Prompto wants, what Prompto needs?





	deserves a quiet night

**Author's Note:**

> Musical inspiration and title from [Nightswimming](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6ebK0XEIMDE) by R. E. M. That link leads to my favorite stripped-down version.

It’s good to wake up, sometimes, he thinks. Good to wake up and realize that -- sleep might have been a good place, because he’s safe there, and most of the time he can even be lucky enough to find all kinds of lovely dreams -- but to wake up and look at something so much better, something almost better than sleeping long and deep -- that’s a gift, he thinks. A small gift, and one that’s important, and that should never be overlooked.

A beautiful gift, because: and here Noctis has to move his arm and his hand, so he can scrub all the last remaining bits of sleep from his eyes -- he can’t quite do the same for his brain and that’s all right, too.

He moves, and because he moves there are answering rustles in the sheets, in this light blanket, and he realizes where his other arm is, where it’s been, why he can’t move it.

Prompto.

In the faint haze of the cold golden moonlight, in the outlines of him, only a little hidden by the same blanket. The curve of his back, where he’s bowed into a loose and gentle curve, and the warmth of his forehead against Noctis’s shoulder. The obvious freckles in a star-whorl on Prompto’s shoulder, such an inviting shape -- only a reminder that he’s covered all over in those pretty little shadow-marks, brush-splatter -- he’s a hidden delight, like the exact color-opposite of a sky full of stars. The bronzed glow of his skin from these weeks and weeks of Crownsguard training, momentarily turned ashen-cool; the faint and fading bruises of running and fighting. The little powder-burns on his forearms, the new and still-sensitive calluses on his hands.

Prompto used to have only one prominent mark anywhere on his hands, and that had been in the exact shape of the shutter-button on his camera, and it had been on his right hand. Now there are more and more patches, more and more reddened areas, and in maybe another week or so those calluses will become even more obvious, will proclaim his choice of weapons to the world.

And Noctis knows in his rational mind that Prompto had come straight to his apartment from one of those extended training sessions -- hours upon hours of target practice -- and hadn’t even had the energy to finish two slices of pizza, or the large cup of soda that Noctis had insisted he drink -- he still remembers the exhausted daze in those blue-violet eyes, the slump in his shoulders, and Noctis’s heart had ached in such a startlingly sharp way.

Recognizing the shape of himself, the stoop of himself, in Prompto’s weariness.

There’d been nothing for it but to lead him to bed -- so strange, but not exactly rare, to be around this quiet and pliant Prompto -- stripped of his words, but not that deep and satisfied smile, and still capable of pulling Noctis into bed after him.

The wordless, easy expectation of him: and all he wants is Noctis, close at hand, close enough to breathe in.

The kind of expectation Noctis would leap to fulfill, knowing -- Prompto sees him, the real him, even with the scars on his skin and the weight of Insomnia and all the missing parts of Lucis on his shoulders. The weight of all his ancestors.

Prompto sees that, not even because of any kind of duty, and sees him as Noctis anyway -- just himself in his own awkward skin and bones -- that’s how he’d landed here, fallen asleep to the softly labored rhythm of wayward breaths.

Grateful, and -- he presses a kiss into Prompto’s lank hair, still smelling of dust and the salt of his sweat, and -- the one kiss becomes two and three and -- 

Noctis bites his lip. Pulls away.

Prompto is still sleeping, for now. Twitch, twitch, of the corner of his eye. Soft long groan falling from his mouth. 

Noctis feels like he’s torn right down the middle between -- so many things. He wants to laugh at himself, and he wants to apologize to ears that won’t hear him, and -- and he wants, he wants, this wiry weight all along his side and curling closer. Sheets rustling in the wake of him and the welcome heat, pressing skin-deep along Noctis’s arm and hip and leg and -- 

He swears, softly, helplessly -- and the stream of words is suddenly cut short because -- there’s another sound and here is Prompto, right in his face, peering myopic and kind and sweet at him.

And there’s a different light sparking in the depths of Prompto’s eyes, almost sly, and Noctis blinks, blinks, and asks: “I woke you?”

“Sort of. Not really.” Slurring syllables, and the swipe of the tip of his nose against Noctis’s skin, when he seems to sway forward and almost topple over -- Noctis reaches up, catches at his hips, holds him steadier. “I felt you. You were touching me -- ’s nice, I wanted to say.”

“So I did wake you up.”

“Don’t apologize. I -- I kind of need to wake up don’t I?”

He doesn’t know what he’s talking about -- he actually reaches for his smartphone, scrolls to the calendar app. “You have something to do tomorrow? -- later?”

“Yeah,” and then all Noctis can see is that smile, growing fonder and sharper at the same time as Prompto blurs out to him, falls onto him -- where does his smartphone go? How can he care? -- and the kiss starts off somewhere in the area of chaste, just a peck or two, but then Prompto’s applying teeth and laughing, softly.

Vibrations running lightning-hot along Noctis’s skin, and the sharp edges of those little bites -- 

“Do you,” he says, he growls, and he moves his hand -- carefully cups it around the back of Prompto’s head so he doesn’t have to get knocked around too much, when Noctis flips them around.

What a pretty gasp Prompto makes, when he lands on his back -- what a sight he is, wide-eyed and open-mouthed and Noctis grins at him, tightens that same hand just a little. Fingers with their own rough patches, gripping carefully into Prompto’s hair -- the soft whine falls out of him and Noctis leans back in to kiss the tip of his nose. 

Checks in. “This okay?”

Not an answer in words that he gets: it’s the breathless laugh, it’s the sudden dark spots rising high in Prompto’s cheeks, obvious even in the poor light, like beacons.

It’s the shiver that Noctis can actually almost just see, running all the way down from Prompto’s shoulders, the flutter in the material of his shirt and the shake in his hips that turns into a roll and -- oh, oh, that’s nice. That’s sort of the thing that Noctis lives for.

The very obvious proof that Prompto’s into this -- into him, and into them and whatever they’re doing now.

Which, that’s also a thing he wants to ask, but before he can even think about the words -- 

Fists in the collar of his shirt, yanking him down, and -- this is good, too, he thinks, before he throws himself headlong into the kiss.

Kisses that feel like flight, like tumbling through storm-winds, like coming up from air from rough-chop waves and it makes him laugh and smile and nuzzle closer, licking at the corner of Prompto’s mouth and the answering moan, the answering permission -- he’s lost in that delicious nothing-space of just their mouths and their bodies, Prompto’s hands wandering and he arches unthinkingly, and that drives his hips downwards, small kind of relief, and he grinds even more shamelessly, laughs when Prompto all but throws him off to -- strip.

At the beginning of this, of all of this, Prompto would never even have thought to do that -- now Noctis just groans softly, at the thought of all that strength coiled now and waiting within Prompto, and just the thought of that makes him flush hot too, and his clothes are suffocating him, and he thinks he hears something rip and -- no, no, he can’t think any more now that the moonlight is hitting the expanses of Prompto, the freckles of him, the way he’s so gently defined and visible in the dawn-dark. The way he turns his head and causes shadows to pool along his collar-bones -- 

“I gotta, I’m sorry,” he hears himself whisper, not so quiet that Prompto can’t hear him -- he catches a glimpse of wide eyes, of quiet surprise, and then he’s homing in on Prompto’s throat. Kisses that turn into needy suction, the scrape of his teeth that he can’t stop. 

Hand clenching in his hair, and breathless words: “Fuck, yeah, please -- ”

More than permission -- more than need -- he moans, too, and drives his hips down -- he feels the answering heave of Prompto’s body against his, and -- maybe they’re just the one person in two bodies now, the two of them blindly scrambling, the two of them breathlessly aligning --

“Fuck fuck fuck,” and he’d agree with that, he’d concur, if only he weren’t still busy. He can feel the heat he’s raising in Prompto’s skin. The shapes of the bruises he’ll be wearing very soon. 

“Noct please,” and then he’s broken out of his trance, he’s feeling the burn of Prompto’s hands skimming down portions of his back -- over the scar, too, he thinks fuzzily, there are places he loses track -- and then all but digging into the flesh of his backside. All but grinding him closer.

So he grins and mouths a short heartfelt sentence into Prompto’s throat: “Gods I love you.”

“I love you too -- now, please, can we?”

“Yeah how -- ”

That’s when he manages to look, really look, into the hungry light in Prompto’s eyes -- and it catches at him, too, it leaves him breathless and lit up and yearning -- the next kisses taste like desperation, feel like teeth and the shake in his voice, in Prompto’s -- 

How can there still be this rush, how can this feel still so new? Need spiking down his nerves and -- oh, everything else will have to wait. He wants to taste more of those freckles. He wants to leave more bruises across Prompto, across those stretch marks, across the give of his belly and the skin stretched over his pelvis, across the scratches and the old scars of his inner thighs and his knees.

No time, no time, is the buzz hammering in his very blood. The instinct pounding at the back of his head.

Blindly Noctis reaches for the bedside drawer, for the familiar battered bottle, the weight of it that maybe would have made him laugh if he were anywhere near actually thinking. 

Hand bumping against his, cupped palm, and he tips the bottle, nearly misses Prompto anyway -- soft laughter, only a little bit mocking, against his ear -- he nips savagely at shoulder-freckles in return. Leans closer into Prompto to show him his grin. The sharp edges in his teeth.

And maybe it’s revenge, maybe it’s more than lust, when Prompto gets that same handful of lube properly situated between their bodies -- when he curls his hand around Noctis’s cock and pumps, punishingly slow and tight and Noctis groans. “Please please gods.”

“Make me,” like some kind of playful demon, like some kind of beautiful evil wrapped in freckles and pale skin.

And Prompto keeps that deliberate pace, even as Noctis fights to keep on breathing, too -- smiles at him, sweet and knowing and so, so good. 

Good enough that Noctis curses him, lets himself fall into the other languages he knows, words he isn’t even supposed to be using, and all he gets for that is a soft sharp laugh.

It takes him far too long to -- move his hand, and grab Prompto’s wrist. 

Far too long to fall into -- begging. “Please Prom please.”

And -- wonder of wonders, Prompto moans and goes pliant against him once again, and Noctis seizes the lead and the tempo -- speeds up just enough that Prompto gasps and tries to get even closer to him, as though that were even possible now that they’re breathless and tangled together, too little air to share, too much urgency rolling through him, like undertow, like warp-flight and the keen edge of blades, and -- 

“Noctis.”

That one word, that one plea.

He pries his eyes open -- he’s caught on the naked love and longing in Prompto’s eyes -- 

He laughs, he cries out, and his climax crashes in on him suddenly -- he doesn’t let go, he can’t, not until -- 

“Fuck!”

Louder than his, the echoes rolling back towards them, like thunder in Noctis’s ears and mind as Prompto, too, falls over his edge.

And -- after -- does he fall in on Prompto once again, or does Prompto reel him in -- skin to skin, the two of them clinging and breathless and -- still somehow he wants to keep on kissing Prompto, to share breaths and more than just this heat, and their bodies covered in drying damp, in bruises and languid satisfaction --

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on Tumblr at my FFXV sideblog [@ninemoons42-lestallumhaven](http://ninemoons42-lestallumhaven.tumblr.com/) or at my main [@ninemoons42](http://ninemoons42.tumblr.com/) \-- or, hey, if Tumblr becomes too rotten and we can't talk there any more, there's always Twitter, where I am @ninemoons42.


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